


After the Storm

by speedgriffon



Series: I Shall Taunt You a Second Time | Dragonborn Fiona Fics [8]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Pre-Relationship, Shades of PTSD, Thieves Guild Questline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 10:16:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20208094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speedgriffon/pseuds/speedgriffon
Summary: The Guild is still reeling from Mercer's betrayal. There's work to be done, and questions to be answered and all Brynjolf wants to do is kiss Fiona again.(Takes place after Betrayal and Forgiveness)





	After the Storm

Brynjolf watched as Delvin paced in front of the Guildmaster’s desk, brows furrowed in deep thought as he explained the situation. 

“Riftweald Manor is still crawling with goons,” he spoke, turning on his heel. “How much coin did Mercer have to pay those brutes to keep the place on lockdown while he hides away?”

Brynjolf shrugged. “He was hardly there to begin with. That oaf Vald still roams the gardens, eh?”

“Pfft, that bastard is loyal to whoever is paying the most,” Delvin spat. He finally stopped pacing long enough to peer at Brynjolf from across the desk. “We could try bribing him. There’s just got to be somethin’ in that house that Mercer left behind.”

“With what coin do you suppose we bribe him with?” Brynjolf asked, crossing his arms. He was sympathetic to Delvin’s anger, but they were getting nowhere. As much as he despised the idea, they would most likely need to resort to bloodshed. Brynjolf shuddered to think he’d stoop to Mercer’s level. 

He rubbed at his jaw, wondering about other possibilities. “There’s the balcony ramp,” he considered. “It would take a well-placed shot to bring it down.”

“Well, well,” Delvin’s tone perked up. “Lucky for us we know a beaut’ that’s handy with a bow.” 

Brynjolf frowned, knowing it was out of question. Fiona was not ready for a mission right now—_especially_ this. She had barely just returned to the Guild with the news of Mercer’s betrayal—with the news of her _survival_. It hadn’t even been a full day, and Brynjolf still hadn’t had the chance to speak with her about the details of what occurred. What she needed was time, and he was giving it to her.

As if Delvin could read Brynjolf’s mind, he sighed, posture wilting as he leaned against the Guildmaster’s desk. “Poor girl,” he lamented. His eyes flicked up, remembering. “Didn’t mean ta’ interrupt the two of you earlier.”

Brynjolf attempted to feign ignorance, but his friend saw right through the façade. Still, Brynjolf perked his brow up, pursing his lips in a tight line as he dared Delvin to tease him about his _relationship _with Fiona. However undefined that relationship might have been. A part of him—perhaps more than rational given current circumstances—was annoyed that Delvin had managed to interrupt the moment of solace he had found with Fiona since her return. Or maybe it was a good thing the Breton had disturbed them before Brynjolf got carried away by his baser desires, or worse, his _emotions_. But—_by the Gods_—he wanted to kiss Fiona again, and it was Delvin’s bloody fault that he hadn’t had the chance to do so yet.

“Didn’t realize you were so sweet on each other,” his friend spoke in a calmer, less playful tone. “Figured it was all a game for you, like always.”

Brynjolf relaxed, despite the fact he was betraying the carefully perfected persona he had crafted after all his time in the Guild. Delvin didn’t seem to mind, or care, or had seen through it long ago. “Is it really that difficult to believe that it’s not a game with Fiona?” he asked. “That I’ve changed? That I might actually lo—”

The words stalled on his tongue, prompting Delvin’s eyes to widen in alarm. He grinned like a madman, and stood up straight. “Oh I definitely shouldn’t have interrupted you two.”

“No,” Brynjolf agreed, moving to place his hands on his hips. “You really shouldn’t have.”

Delvin waved his hand as if to dismiss the entire disagreement. “I can help play Lady Mara later,” he joked. “Right now there are more pressing issues.”

Regardless of Brynjolf’s irritation, Delvin was right. But he was also right about his earlier point. He needed to talk to Fiona about breaking into Riftweald Manor. It wouldn’t be an easy ask—but since when had anything in Brynjolf’s life been so simple?

He kneaded at the tension he felt at his shoulders. “Where’s the lass now?”

“So it’s my plan after all, eh?” Delivn chortled, before shrugging as he peered over his shoulder. “Last I saw her, she was in the Flaggon.”

It was all Brynjolf needed to hear to start moving across the Cistern, ignoring the little smirk Delvin flashed as he walked away. “Try to keep your hands to yourself this time!”

Being that it was already well past midnight, the Flaggon was devoid of its usual Guild members, most likely out scraping together what coin they could thanks to Mercer’s treachery. Brynjolf spotted who he was searching for at the bar, Fiona perched on a barstool at the corner nearest to the fire where Vekel was absentmindedly stirring a pot of stew. Her back was to him, so it was difficult to discern her current mood. Judging by the idle conversation she was keeping with Vekel, he felt comfortable enough to approach.

“There you are,” he called, pressing one hand to her back as he sat on the stool next to her. He faltered when she flinched away from his touch, startled by his sudden appearance. “Sorry lass, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

Fiona relaxed when she glanced at him, managing the tiniest of smiles. Her hood was pulled down, most of her blonde hair pulled over one shoulder—clearly in an attempt to hide the still healing scar that Mercer had inflicted. Brynjolf had seen a glimpse of it earlier when they had been alone in the back of the Cistern. A part of him hoped she trusted him enough to let him see it again. He hoped she knew it wasn’t necessary to cover it like a mark of shame, but for now, he understood.

Vekel served them both tankards of ale alongside a bowl of stew, smiling as he offered Fiona a plate of fresh bread. Brynjolf watched as she eagerly took the food, steam rising from the bread as she tore it apart with her fingers. She allowed it to soak up some of the soup before quickly bringing it to her mouth. The sight made Brynjolf grin, but also wonder just how long she had gone without a proper meal.

Fiona seemed to notice he was watching, and slowed her movements. “How was your chat with Delvin?”

“Hmm,” Brynjolf contemplated answering her question as he took a bite of his own food. “Another dead end, it seems.”

“You can tell me the truth,” she said flatly. “You were with him for a while. Must’ve been more than just that.”

Brynjolf softly laughed, nodding as Fiona saw through his badly formed lie. “Aye, we…have a plan to find Mercer.”

Fiona only nodded, waiting for Brynjolf to continue. He hesitated, thinking back to their earlier conversation, or rather, lack thereof. He wanted to be patient with her and tread carefully. Despite the heartfelt reunion, the ache of how tumultuous their fight before her disappearance was still lingered. There were so many unanswered questions, and it was taking everything in him not to blurt them out at her in interrogation. As if she could tell he was lost in his thoughts, Fiona paused in her eating, idly pushing her spoon around the edge of the bowl. 

“I should tell you what happened at Snowveil Sanctum,” she said. “I owe you some answers.”

“You owe me nothing,” he tried to counter, but she shook her head. He looked up, eyeing Vekel in a way that had the Flaggon barkeep taking the hint to hide himself away and give the two some privacy. Brynjolf nodded then, allowing her to continue on her own time.

“The ruins were just like any other Nord tomb I’ve been to in my travels outside the Guild,” she started in a low voice. “Mercer glided through that place—he knew every trap, every trick that awaited us.”

“I knew something was wrong the moment we approached the puzzle door and Mercer was unable to unlock it without a dragon claw.” Fiona paused when she noted Brynjolf’s brows knit in confusion. “You need to do more grave robbing,” she tried to joke with a grim smile. “It’s a puzzle door, impossible to open otherwise. But Mercer unlocked it like it was a rusty padlock on a shed.”

“How?” Brynjolf asked.

Fiona shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Two eagles and a snake,” she mumbled—Brynjolf wasn’t sure of the meaning. “Beyond the door was only darkness. Mercer practically pushed me to go first, where Karliah ambushed us, well, shot me with a paralyzing arrow.”

“She _shot_ you?” his alarm calmed as Fiona reached over to rest one hand over his.

“She saved my life,” she reminded him. “It was a neutralizer of some sort, to keep me alive after Mercer…slit my throat.”

Fiona instinctively reached for her neck, but Brynjolf grabbed at her hand, tightening her fingers in his own. Again, the rage bubbled within—Mercer had returned to the Cistern with lies of Fiona’s death, and used it against Brynjolf as a cruel form of punishment. In a way, he still felt guilty for ever letting her leave with the former Guildmaster.

“Whatever he told you I said in the end—”

“Aye Fiona,” he cut her off, squeezing her hand and scooting closer. “I know. I’m not that big a fool to believe a spiteful lie when I hear one.”

“We know Mercer is a murderer,” she continued. “Gallus’ journal also spoke of Nightingales. It’s likely _why_ he killed Gallus in the first place.”

“Nightingales?” Brynjolf was more confused than before. “That’s just a tale we tell the footpads to keep them in line.”

Fiona solemnly shook her head. “By the way Karliah speaks of them, I’m not so certain. She also told me she was behind Goldenglow and Honningbrew. An effort to make Mercer look bad in front of Maven.”

“To what end?” he wondered. “Clever, though.”

A dull quiet followed and eventually, Fiona pulled her hand away to take a drink from her ale. She stared at him as he copied her movements, the two sitting in an unsettling silence until their drinks were finished, meals hardly touched. “So this plan of yours,” she mused. “To find him.”

Brynjolf finally relented. It was time. “We need to break into Mercer’s home and search for anything that could tell us where he’s gone.”

“We?” she questioned.

“Like I’d have you do it alone,” he replied. “It’s the Riftweald Manor near the temple. Delvin has ensured he’s not there, but the place is crawling with thugs. For once, I’m not inclined to care about killing anyone that stands in our way.”

Fiona firmly nodded. “Let’s take care of it then.”

And then she let out a long, drawn out yawn. Brynjolf chuckled as her cheeks flushed in embarrassment, one hand flying to her mouth to cover the trail end of the telling sign of her exhaustion.

“Perhaps after you’ve had some sleep,” he suggested. “I’m surprised you stayed here so late, what with that fancy estate of yours.”

Fiona pulled a face at his tease—he now knew precisely how she had managed to fund the purchase of Honeyside in Riften, and it wasn’t through thieving and debauchery—no, it was through _heroism_ and being the Gods-blessed _Dragonborn_. Another topic he still had many questions to ask her on, but that was for another evening.

“I’m going to stay in the Cistern tonight.”

“Oh?”

“Knowing that Mercer is still alive, somewhere out there…it doesn’t matter how fortified the locks on the homestead’s doors are, or how many daggers I keep beneath my pillowcase,” she breathed out a defeated sigh. “I’d feel safer here in the Guild with everyone.”

That familiar pang of guilt settled in Brynjolf’s gut once more—Fiona’s fear was not something she deserved. This trauma would take time to heal, regardless of what happened to Mercer, and Brynjolf wanted to be there for her every step of the way. Fate had changed their dynamic, pushing it forward and down a path faster than Brynjolf could’ve ever imagined, but he was determined to keep up.

Brynjolf had an idea. Fiona didn’t have to hide away in the Ratway, and he could help prove it to her. Delvin’s warning to _keep his hands to himself _flashed in the back of his mind, but he shook it away, listening to his heart for once.

“Come on lass,” he encouraged, urging her to stand up. Fiona peered at him with knitted brows, unmoving. “Let’s get you to Honeyside.”

“I just got done explaining—”

“You don’t have to be alone,” he clarified sincerely. When she still seemed unconvinced by the suggestion, he flashed a grin. “Not when _I’m_ there to protect you.”

Fiona rolled her eyes at his tease, playfully pushing at his shoulder even as she stood up. “Last time you said that, I was poisoned by assassins. Or was it when we were attacked by bears? Or when you stepped on that fire mine—”

“Isn’t your bunk in the Cistern next to Delvin?” Brynjolf pondered aloud. “Between the snoring, and the daydreaming of Vex…”

“You’re insufferable,” Fiona huffed, but her smile was encouraging. Brynjolf wrapped his arm around her shoulder as the two walked back through the Cistern.

“Aye, but you love me anyways.”

* * *

Outside, a small trickle of rain had started to fall, a light mist blanketing the entire city. It was eerie and peaceful all the same—a reason why this was such prime hours for thieves to get their work done. The stonemason coffin slid back into place as they exited the Cistern, the two pausing to don their hoods before Fiona led them across the courtyard and market towards her home. Brynjolf studied the shadows, wondering if they could really believe the news that no trace of Mercer had been found in Riften. By the time they reached the eastside entrance, his senses had settled, but he could tell Fiona was on high alert.

She glanced over her shoulder before flashing her key, quickly undoing the lock before ushering the two of them inside. This wasn’t the first time Brynjolf had stepped foot in the homestead, but something about this visit felt _different_. Honeyside was a modest home, seemingly unfit for somebody that was called _Dragonborn_, but it was perfect for Fiona. A small kitchen nook and fireplace in the front entrance, and around the corner, a writing desk, numerous chests and her large bed, covered in furs. There was a cellar as well, where Fiona kept her alchemy supplies and surplus ingredients.

Fiona idled near the fireplace, stoking the logs to encourage the flames to grow and warm and light the dark room. She pushed back her hood and glanced at him, and he noted the hint of anxiousness there—it wouldn’t do. If there was one thing he _didn’t_ want, was for their friendship—relationship to chance for the worse. No awkward looks or hesitation with words. It had always been so easy before, and that’s the way he wanted it to remain.

“Come here now, Fiona,” he beckoned, opening his arms to her, inviting her into an embrace. She turned to meet him, wrapping her arm tight around his torso, the other hooked over his shoulder. Her head rested against the curve of his neck, nose nuzzling there as she breathed out. He tucked her closer to his chest, one hand cradling the back of her head. He craned his head down to press a kiss to her temple. “I’m here for you.”

“I know,” she responded, softly.

Brynjolf smiled, gently peeling her away just enough so he could see her face. There was the faintest familiar glow that he had missed while she was away, a look that he never wanted to be without. “I care about you.”

“I know,” she repeated with a nod, and the tiniest hint of flirtatious smile. “I missed you, Bryn—we make a good team.”

“That we do lass,” he agreed with a smirk. Divines knew he never wanted to be apart from her again, if he had anything to say about it. He refrained from letting his heart take _too_ much control of the moment—no need to pour out so much emotion in one evening, not when she had only just returned. Instead, his eyes flicked down to her lips, and he remembered how _rudely_ they had been interrupted before.

“Can I kiss you?” His own question surprised him as he moved his hand to hold the side of her face.

Fiona raised a brow and tilted her chin up slightly. “Suddenly you’re asking?”

“I can be gentlemanly when I need to be,” he countered.

“It doesn’t suit you,” she teased. “I rather prefer the lecherous Brynjolf, always flirting and taking what he—”

_Fine_, Brynjolf thought as he interrupted her words, covering her mouth with his own. She smiled against his lips, arms around him tightening as she kissed him in return. It was sweet, far gentler than their emotion filled reunion earlier that evening. Not that _this_ kiss held any less emotion, but Brynjolf felt far lighter—_happier_.

“So you’ll stay?” Fiona asked as she pulled away, pressing one last soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. She was beaming, but holding it back. “To _protect_ me, of course?”

“Right,” Brynjolf laughed, reluctantly peeling his arms away from her. He peered around the house before eyeing the ladder. “I’ll start my patrol in the cellar.”

“Stay down there long enough for me to change,” she instructed, rolling her eyes when she noted his eyebrows perk up. “_No_ peeking.”

Brynjolf lowered himself down the ladder into the darkness, listening to the floorboards above creak and fabric shuffle as Fiona changed. His mind wavered, and he stood there in a momentary haze as he imagined her undressing, then cursed at his lewd thoughts. But knowing her _naked_ form was just a ladder’s crawl away was _tempting_. He gulped—he really had told Delvin the truth, he was (somewhat) a changed man—the fact he hadn’t rushed back up to ravage her already.

Instead, he took the nearby lantern and combed over the storage bins, kicking at sacks and hunching down at areas where a thief or assassin would hide. Quickly though, it was obvious the cellar was devoid of any harm. Well, except for Fiona’s poisonous mushrooms and janis root extract. 

“Careful of the lavender,” Fiona’s voice called from upstairs. Brynjolf skirted around the baskets of flora, pinching the bridge of his nose so the offending flowers wouldn’t upset his allergies, as he inspected every last corner of the basement once more on his way back to the ladder.

Fiona was sitting on the edge of the bed as he stepped back onto the first floor, changed into a simple white cotton dress meant for sleeping in. She was now carefully removing the braids from her hair, piling the metal pins and little ties that kept them together in a neat pile on the nearby table. Brynjolf slowly circled around the room, inspecting the eastern and western door’s locks, all the while glancing over to catch Fiona inspecting his movements.

He flashed a grin as he finally sat in the chair before her writing desk, inspecting the wide away of notes, maps and books she had gathered in her travels. Just how had her true nature gone unnoticed by him? He wanted to know more…_eventually_.

“It’ll be just like having first watch,” he joked, crossing his arms as he leaned back to get comfortable. “Well, except this time for the whole night.”

“You aren’t staying there,” she commented, shifting her body under the blankets and furs.

“Is that so?”

Fiona only beckoned him with a nod of her head as she settled against her pillows, bright eyes watching him carefully through the dim lighting of the room. Slowly, Brynjolf stood and approached the bed, hovering over her for a long moment as he contemplated her offer. She’d never invited him before—despite the fact he’d found himself asleep and awoken beside her in the same space on a few occasions before. At any other time he would’ve made a vulgar comment about sharing her bed, but this wasn’t the time. This was entirely new, and _exciting_, and made his brain, heart, and loins ache all at once.

Finally, he sat on the edge of the bed, glancing over his shoulder to look at her as he removed his boots. She watched him the entire time as he moved, shifting to remove his belt and daggers to the nightstand where they would be safe, but still within reach—just in case. He stood again, undoing the metal buckles of his Guild armor before sliding it off his shoulders and draping it across the wooden dresser at the foot of the bed. He’d leave his leathers on, no way she had a change of pants for him at this point, but smirked when she eyed his chest and the loose linen shirt. He brought it up over his head, chuckling when he noted the soft flush on her cheeks—it wasn’t like she hadn’t seen him shirtless before.

“Like what you see, lass?”

“Perhaps,” she answered, with a coy smile.

She scooted across the bed to create a void large enough for him to lay in, eyeing him as he pulled back the covers to do just that. Brynjolf stretched out next to her on his back, suddenly very aware of how little sleep he had gotten over the last few weeks while she had been presumed dead. His body instantly relaxed, welcoming the softness of the blankets and furs and _her_. Fiona’s hand reached out to him, and he turned his head to find her hesitantly seeking out to touch him.

Brynjolf swiftly moved his arm to wrap around her, inviting her to snuggle close to his side. Fiona did just that, one arm hooking around his chest, her legs sliding against his as her feet playfully tickled against his.

“This is…nice,” Fiona mumbled as she nuzzled her head against the curve of his shoulder.

Brynjolf softly chuckled, running one of his hands down her arm as he settled into the comfort that was her bed and embrace. “I told you my chest made a decent pillow.”

“If only I had believed you before,” she sighed, her breath a delightful tingle across his skin. “Thank you for believing us—_me_. For staying with me tonight.”

“I’ll stay with you every night if you need me to,” he quickly assured.

Fiona’s quiet laughter warmed his chest. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? An excuse to stay in my bed, hmm?”

“With _you_, lass!” he reiterated, squeezing her into his side as she squealed playfully. They relaxed then, finally letting the warmth of the fire lull them to sleep. She yawned, turning her head ever so slightly to press a fleeting kiss against his shoulder blade. “Goodnight Brynjolf.”

“Goodnight Fiona,” he replied. He turned his head down to watch as her eyes fluttered closed, and eventually, her breathing even out as she fell asleep. “Love.”

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are always appreciated


End file.
